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"And that from a distance ...?

answer your question,

gave me to write ...

For some time I think, believe and am convinced

that people are friends,

not so much to see them , to talk,

you are, that hug ....

but because of that interest, your interest in that person,

independent much as you speak or see,

I have people who watch a lot but do not consider them my friends,

unlike no other I have pretty much,

but I consider them my friends ...

Now I wonder what is the distance?

And yes, I love you,

thanks for making every day less gray ...

Without further explanation ends here ...

Is Swallowing Tooth Mousse Dangerous

Elegy for melancholic desires

I'm not sad, I'm tired

all I ever wanted. Dowson

myself I have the habit of reading to remember a story long before bedtime. Today I remember a story broken by the death of Italo Svevo where he describes a man of a certain age before going to bed wondering what would happen if the devil was present to propose the usual deal. Fatigue inclines him to surrender his soul, but do not know what to ask in return. Do not want to return to youth, land of folly and drives aimlessly, nor desires eternity because life is painful and tiring and monotonous. As others, afraid of death. The man smiles at the irony void that has led her life. At that time his wife wakes up and says, "Blessed are you you still want to laugh at this hour." The phrase seals the drama in a masterly: the smile of a man with no alternative means no insult or resignation, is the gesture of one who faces the big joke in the world, the point of no return where hope is now impossible. Svevo records the demise of desire.

The desire never reaches its true purpose: it leads to oblivion, to the decay and death. You may wish much and always will be too little. But what we want to always have too. I'm about to sleep and I have no desire. From a practical time now a daily ritual of survival: I think that all the past is reduced immediately when I just live and all the future focuses on the next hour I'll still enjoy. Eternity is two hours between two spaces where they drown failures and dreams. Thinking about these things is to me the devil himself, and, abruptly, I proposed a deal. I thought that just around the corner lurks not always what we see and here we are, in my room with my leg half raised for introducing me to the bed and this biblical flooding the room with the smell of sulfur. I propose if you want to be a great writer, be recognized now and for eternity. My friend, I say, the hardest part is finding a hole to get out of the work itself. The devil suddenly disappears. One of these entanglements is saved thanks to the high demand by most active writers who claim their service to sell their souls.

Every writer is born with a vocation to oblivion. In many cases, however, the plural forms of sin are twisting this vocation and adorned with the trappings of fame, glory and even immortality. Almost all writers become traitors to their vocation, which is nothing but to go languishing sleepless nights and early mornings between more or less useless.

Few writers know the goal, as Borges said, is forgotten, the creature that devours everything, that disease that makes us equal and reconciled with the dust from which we came. Who will come before the goal?

find that I have yet ridiculously leg raised with the Striped Pajamas uploaded to the knee.

Can You Pop A Pinguecula?

"In a world without sadness the nightingale would burp."

EMCioran

"There are laughs that make you close your eyes." This phrase blunt the poet Luis García Montero attempted to explain the battle that Professor Eric G. Wilson has decided to take against the crown jewel. Everyone wants to embrace. Which employers are bent on selling. The parents want for their children. The politicians include in their speeches: the utopian happiness overrated. "It was the caveman melancholy and withdrawn he stayed back and pondered as his happy hunting and muscular dinner companions, who advanced the culture," says Wilson in his book Against Happiness. In defense of melancholy (Taurus).

"According to a survey recent Pew Research Center, nearly 85% of Americans believe they are very happy or at least happy. " Wilson mentioned the cult of beauty, the obsession with accumulating wealth and happiness pills comfortable and he asks, almost desperately, in the introduction to his essay: "What can we do with this obsession with happiness, an obsession that could lead to sudden extinction of the creative impulse?". citizens can only consider the extent to distance ourselves from that happiness imposed false.

This is not elected to the melancholy of Wilson's speech of Mr. sullen Scrooge, from Dickens, but a rebellious voice against the deliberate imposition of the idea of \u200b\u200bhappiness that American society (and others) has engaged in coining and reaffirmation of melancholy as an engine of creativity. The state of melancholy can be master of your mind, and, above all, settle in uncomfortable territory of individual conscience. Wilson himself admits in his book only when he took seriously his melancholy, " knew my family background and develop a closer relationship."

The debate about the relevance of melancholy as a creative engine is not new. Jorge Luis Borges praised often a monumental book by Robert Burton Anatomy of Melancholy, appeared in 1921, also held at the time Samuel Beckett, Anthony Burgess and John Keats, who also composed the famous Ode to melancholy . Burton said that only immune to the " black bile" fools and the Stoics. Time after the great Gustave Flaubert reformulate the idea with a more incisive phrase " be stupid, selfish and be healthy, here are three conditions needed to be happy. But if you lack the first, you are lost."

In 1932, Aldous Huxley in Brave New World forward a portrait of contemporary society. A society without problems, with the latest technology, mass production, prosperity and peace at the expense of family values, culture and feelings. Something like American society (and other) critical of Wilson and the teacher belongs. Wilson asks "ignorance has to do with happiness, which we created the flat world, without complexities intellectuals?". A question that Ray Bradbury was already in 1953 in Fahrenheit 451, where millions of books were burned because reading the minds confused and was causing concern, therefore prevented people were happy.

No players happy in the literature because the unhappiness generated dramatic conflict. I remember the first lines of Anna Karenina, Tolstoy's "blissful All families are alike, but unhappy ones are each in their own way." With it installed said that the unhappiness is impossible and should enjoy the happy moments, but also embrace the melancholy ecstasy to blow up the creativity.

Wilson closes his essay with a disturbing reflection: "To promote the company absolute happiness is to make a culture of fear." and topped with a warm invitation: " We must find the way, however difficult, to be who we are, sullenness included."

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The boat ....( My boat) floating dock

"Be still when the sea is a storm, when
sea \u200b\u200bis calm is the time

to make arrangements for our boat ... "

Thanks John D.

"... fix the boat
because you have to keep paddling
and the journey continue ..."

Thanks MM!

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